


Bottom of the River

by Quoth_the_Raven_1849



Category: Steam Powered Giraffe
Genre: Action/Adventure, Blood, Childhood Memories, F/M, Gore, Gunslinging, Half-Siblings, Historical, Horseback Riding, Major Character Injury, Mentions of Slavery, more tags will come but I don't wanna give too much away, so much horseback riding
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-03-06
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:13:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,354
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29688633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quoth_the_Raven_1849/pseuds/Quoth_the_Raven_1849
Summary: Rex Marksley has always possessed a hero's heart - courageous, kind, and truly selfless. Looking after other people, whether they be friends or family, acquaintances or strangers, is simply in his nature.He also possesses an independent spirit and a stubborn streak a mile wild. There are few things this gunslinger loathes more than being forced to stand down and surrender his lifelong role as the protector, no matter how severe his injuries.So what happens on those occasions when the harsh Midwestern prairie leaves him no other choice?
Relationships: Rex Marksley/Original Female Character
Comments: 26
Kudos: 10





	1. Hold My Hand

California, 1879

“I’m gonna tell Mother what you’re doing.”

Fourteen-year-old Rex Marksley paused, one long leg already flung over the top rung of the fence containing their neighbor’s vicious colt. Rolling his eyes at the sound of his younger brother’s accusing tone, Rex straddled the rough wooden beam and twisted at the waist to squint down at Albert, who had just turned eleven and fancied himself a man.

He was standing a safe distance from the corral, skinny arms crossed over his chest in what Rex supposed was meant to be a stern posture. His bare feet were soaking wet, turning the red ochre to mud, and his pants were cuffed up below his knees – yet still dripping river water.

“Uh-huh. An’ I’m gonna tell Mama that you been tryin’ to catch fish with your bare hands as if you was a grizzly, even though she told ya not to.” he replied coolly. “An’ stop tryin’ to talk all proper. Doesn’t suit you.”

Albert flushed with annoyance, and had he been a few years younger he might’ve stomped his foot. But he was eleven now, a _man,_ so he instead sniffed with exaggerated disdain and straightened that silly old tricorn hat of his, puffing out his thin chest the way he did every time he thought he was about to say something real important – which it usually wasn’t.

“Rexford Thaddeus Alexander, if your boots so much as touch the ground inside that corral, I’m going to go tell Mother and she’ll come pull you out of there by the scruff of your neck. Do you really want that?” he threatened his brother in the best English accent he could muster.

“Will ya stop callin’ her ‘Mother?’ Ya never did that when you was little.” Rex shot back. “Makes ya sound like some rich folks’ boy, all stiff and formal-like. An’ don’t call me ‘Rexford,’ my name is _Rex._ Rex _Marksley.”_

The stunned expression on his little brother’s face told Rex he had gone over the line, but he couldn’t backtrack, or Albert would think he’d won. Shoving his father’s old black Stetson firmly on the crown of his head, Rex swung his other leg over the fence, jumped down, and approached the colt, sixteen hands of chestnut-colored hatred aptly named Devil.

The moment Rex’s boots hit the ground, Devil pinned his ears back and bared his teeth, pawing at the dirt and switching his tail. A threatening nicker rumbled from low in his throat, and he swung his head one way and then the other, trying to get an eyeful of the old leather headstall Rex grasped at his side. Now that there was no longer a fence between him and the aggressive young Thoroughbred, Devil seemed a whole lot bigger and scarier, but Rex couldn’t let his brother see him back down from this; he swore he’d ride this colt, and damnit, _he was gonna do it._

Swallowing thickly, the lanky youth inched closer to the chestnut colt. Rex’s legs were shuddering beneath him, his knuckles beginning to whiten around the cheekpieces of the bridle. Devil’s eyes were rolling in his finely chiseled skull, his long legs nearly tangling themselves up as he skittered diagonally away from this foolhardy young interloper.

“Rex, _stop!”_ Albert hissed urgently. “You’re gonna get hurt!”

“I’m not gonna get hurt.” Rex groused. “I know what I’m doin’.”

He was close enough now to see the muscles twitching in Devil’s jaw, close enough to reach out and touch him. If he moved quickly, maybe he could loop the headstall over his ears and then get clear before the colt managed to kick or bite him. Devil eyed Rex’s trembling fingers, as if he could tell what the boy intended to do. He let out another threatening whicker from deep in his throat, one final warning. Rex could almost feel his little brother’s eyes on him; he had gone too far to back out now.

Before he could lose his nerve, Rex lunged at Devil. He heard Albert’s sharp intake of breath as the colt scuttled sideways, leaving Rex’s hands grasping at empty air. Devil whirled to face him, his black eyes flashing with a murderous gleam. Rex stumbled backwards as the vicious colt lowered his head and charged like a bull, Albert’s cry of alarm echoing in his ears as he tripped over his own feet and fell hard on his backside. Devil was bearing down on him, seeming impossibly large and savage; he reared up, forehooves slashing through the air, and Rex heard his own gasp as if from far away as he flung his arms up to protect his face.

Eyes tightly shut, Rex felt one of Devil’s hooves collide with his left arm, felt the fabric of his sleeve giving way with a loud _riiiiip,_ then felt the skin underneath being torn open as the hoof’s tip slashed across his forearm. Devil’s other hoof came down inches from Rex’s head, his hot breath whooshing across the terrified boy’s face. Holding his wounded arm awkwardly against his chest, Rex scrambled out from under the colt’s violently stamping hooves and half-crawled, half-ran towards the fence.

He could feel the ground vibrating as Devil gave chase; a set of vicious equine teeth loudly snapped shut right beside his ear as he narrowly avoided losing a sizable chunk of lobe to the violent young stallion. Panic rose in Rex’s throat as he realized there was no way he could get over the fence quickly enough to avoid another flurry of kicks and bites; normally he could scale any obstacle quicker than if a dozen wild boars were on his tail, but his injured left arm refused to support his weight.

Before he had the chance to even try to climb it, however, Rex felt a set of skinny fingers bury themselves in the fabric of his shirt and yank him through the largest gap between the slats, pulling him to safety just as Devil skidded to a stop and thrust his head over the fence, eyes rolling and teeth snapping the air. Had he remained in the corral for just a few seconds longer, Rex would’ve been kicked in the head, maybe killed. Albert scooted on his rear and dragged his older brother with him, putting a little more distance between them and the aggressive horse. His thin chest heaving raggedly from the effort, Albert scrambled back to his feet and stared down at Rex, his eyes as large as dinner plates.

Rex expected his little brother to immediately launch into a lecture about how foolish his actions were and such forth, but to his surprise, Albert dropped to a crouch beside him, not an ounce of smugness tainting the pure brotherly concern in his expression. If Rex hadn’t been in so much pain, he would’ve thought it sweet, but the pain was… _bad._ Now that he was no longer at risk of being trampled by a Thoroughbred stallion with an exceedingly bad attitude, Rex found himself trembling, the pain in his arm rapidly increasing. He whimpered and cradled it against his body, feeling the warm wetness of blood soaking his shirt.

“Stay right there! Don’t move! I’m gonna go get help!” Albert ordered his older brother, his body practically vibrating with adrenaline.

“My legs work fine.” Rex groused, hauling himself to a sitting position and ignoring how it made his head spin. He clumsily tugged his red kerchief from around his neck and tried to wrap it around his forearm, shuddering as his fingers brushed against a dangling flap of torn skin.

Albert visibly paled and turned away, swallowing hard as he fought back the urge to gag. Although Rex’s little brother had an iron stomach when it came to his sailing “expeditions” on the lake, he’d never had much of a tolerance for blood and gore; the sight of Rex’s mangled arm was clearly too much for him to handle. Under different circumstances, Rex might’ve teased him a little for being such a wimp, but this time he couldn’t blame him. The wound looked awful, and felt even worse.

Rex managed to snag one end of the cloth in his teeth, shivering as the blood coated his tongue and trying not to swallow any of it. With his lips and the fingers of his other hand, he managed to awkwardly tie a knot in his makeshift pressure bandage. Albert had retreated a short distance and was dry-heaving into some nearby scrub brush; Rex had considered asking his younger brother to help him tie the cloth around his forearm, but thought better of it when the latter’s face turned violently green.

“It’s all covered up now, Albert. Come on outta the bushes.” Rex called to his younger brother in what he hoped was a reassuring tone.

“Uh-huh, comin’.” Albert replied in a strained voice. “Just gotta – _ow!”_

“What’re you yelpin’ for?” Rex groused, easing himself up to his knees and looking around for his father’s Stetson, which had fallen off at some point when he was escaping from Devil. Hopefully it hadn’t wound up inside the corral; he wasn’t looking for a second encounter with that wretch of a Thoroughbred or his viciously sharp iron horseshoes.

When a snippy reply didn’t come after a few moments, Rex paused in his hands-and-knees search for his hat. “Albert?” he called again, frowning.

After being again greeted with silence, Rex shifted onto one hip and twisted to face the smattering of dry brush his little brother had been ankle-deep in when he last looked – except now, Rex couldn’t see him.

“Albert??” Rex called, louder this time, starting to worry. His brother once again didn’t reply, but the culprit behind his sudden silence did – with a telltale buzzing noise that sent ice-cold panic down Rex’s spine.

_Rattlesnake._

Rex scrambled to his feet, rushing to the last spot he’d seen his brother, and saw Albert struggling to prop himself up on his elbows, a dazed expression on his face. Two distinct puncture marks on his left ankle oozed venom and blood, the skin around the wounds rapidly swelling and turning purple. To Rex’s horror, the snake was curled up inches from Albert’s legs, its shiny black tongue flicking in and out of its mouth.

“O-oh, ow, it hurts – ow, Rex, it hurts, it _hurrrrrts!”_ Albert whimpered, squirming feverishly and curling in on himself. The snake hissed loudly and sounded its rattle again, threatened by the boy’s feeble stirring.

Before he could think better of it, Rex grabbed the snake by its rapidly quivering tail and yanked it away from his brother. The tightly coiled muscles of its body rippled as it writhed around, arching upward to sink its fangs into his wrist. With a yelp, he flung the snake a few feet away, where it slunk under a rock formation with an irate hiss. Once the tip of its tail had fully vanished, Rex turned his attention back to his brother.

Albert was curled up on his side, shivering despite the warmth of the early-evening sunshine. His left foot was already beginning to swell up, the puncture marks surrounded by dark, ugly bruising. As Rex bent over his trembling form, his eyelids fluttered and he let out a soft groan. The venom was moving fast; with how little Albert weighed, he didn’t have much time before it caused irreversible – or fatal – damage.

“Hold still, Albert.” Rex told his brother, trying to keep his voice steady. With trembling hands, he withdrew his jackknife from his back pocket and flipped open the blade, short but wickedly sharp, gleaming in the rapidly fading daylight. Swallowing back the lump of dread in his throat, he used the elbow of his injured arm to pin down Albert’s leg – one false move could lead to him causing his little brother more harm than good – and firmly pressed the tip of the blade into the skin right beside the bite. Albert yelped and squirmed feebly, tears streaking his dusty cheeks.

 _“Owwww!!_ Rex, stop, you’re hurting me!! Ow, ow, ow! Ow!” he wailed, attempting to pull his leg away from the bite of the steel. Rex gritted his teeth and added the weight of one knee to his elbow, pressing the tip of the blade deeper into his little brother’s flesh until blood squirted out. The first cut sliced diagonally along his ankle, skirting as closely to one of the puncture marks as he dared. Then he shifted his grip on the knife and made another incision, slashing across the first one in an X shape.

Tossing the knife aside, Rex grasped Albert’s leg with both hands and squeezed as hard as he could, watching as blood dribbled out of both the cuts and the fang marks. Albert whimpered, but didn’t offer much resistance this time. His face was almost completely drained of color, and his lips were turning pale gray. His closed eyelids quivered feebly. Rex hunched over, sealed his mouth over the wound, and began to suck. Blood and venom seeped into his throat and he resisted the urge to gag, instead twisting around to spit out the mouthful of foul liquid.

Time stood still as Rex repeated those three motions – suck, turn, spit – all the while squeezing, desperate to get as much venom as possible out. Dusk was closing in around them; the air was cooling, the light fading. Their surroundings were eerily quiet, the only sounds being the chirrup of crickets and Albert’s ragged breathing. The sand all around them had turned to rusty-colored mud, the bitter and metallic stench of blood overwhelming Rex’s olfactory glands. His forearms up to his elbows were covered in half-dried smears of blood – both Albert’s and his own.

Then, Rex heard his brother take a deep breath. Color began to trickle back into his face, gray-blue lips darkening to pink. Two slivers of hazel appeared between eyelashes that clung together with dust and tears as Albert struggled to focus on Rex’s face. In spite of the throbbing in his arms and the film of venom and blood coating his mouth, Rex found himself beginning to laugh – a borderline hysterical laugh of relief.

“How’re ya feelin’?” he asked, breathless from exertion.

“Like crap.” Albert rasped, bloodshot eyes sliding down to his leg, where runny blood was still seeping out of the wounds. “…Thanks.”

“Nah, nah, don’t mention it.” Rex replied, using his jackknife to hack off a strip of his left sleeve and wrapping it around the still-oozing injuries.

“Rex…Your arm…” Albert groaned, his eyes drifting to the shallow tooth marks that had been the snake’s parting gift to the older boy.

“Oh, this? It’s nothing. Dry bite.” Rex said quickly, pulling his hand away from Albert’s feeble attempt to grasp his wrist. It wasn’t entirely a lie. There wasn’t a lot of venom, he didn’t think – the snake’s fangs had only scratched him, just a little prick, not nearly as deep as Albert’s bite.

“C’mon, let’s get ya back to Mama. Up.” he murmured, sliding one arm under Albert’s gangly legs and the other behind his back.

“’M not a child…” Albert protested in a voice barely above a whisper, his head lolling against Rex’s shoulder as the latter struggled to his feet. Lifting him was no small effort, especially with the state of Rex’s left arm, but at the same time, his younger brother suddenly seemed so fragile. Once he was fully on his feet, Rex took a couple of slow, wobbly steps.

“Wait…my shoes…Mama’ll be angry…” Albert shifted in Rex’s grip, nearly knocking the latter off balance, distress in his reedy voice.

“Don’t you worry about your shoes.” Rex replied gruffly. “Mama won’t fuss over such a silly thing once she hears you got bit by a rattlesnake.”

Albert slowly nodded, relaxing in his brother’s arms, and Rex resumed his slow, shuffling gait – one foot in front of the other, one step at a time. With legs trembling beneath him, stomach heaving, and head spinning, he pressed on, refusing to entertain the idea of resting – if he sat down, there was a solid chance he wouldn’t be able to get up again.

He just had to get Albert home. Then he could rest. Then he could sleep. One foot in front of the other. Just had to get him back to the homestead. Mama would know what to do. She would go get Tia Alma from her little stone house on the edge of town, and they would take good care of Albert while he rested, and everything would be fine…just _fine…_

“Rex?? _REX??”_

Mama’s voice…he’d made it to the homestead. Rex sank to his knees, supporting Albert’s head as best he could with arms that had gone partially numb from the strain. His vision was blurring, his thoughts fading to a discordant buzz in the back of his head. Mama swooped in, scooping Albert off the ground, and Papa Francis wasn’t far behind.

“Easy, easy, I’ve got you.” he murmured, his Yorkshire accent still thick despite having lived in the U.S. for nearly two decades. He gathered Rex in his strong arms and carried him inside, and for once Rex didn’t put up a fuss at being treated like a child. It was kind of nice to be fussed over when he felt so awful – dizzy, achy, wobbly, feverish, nauseous… _sick._

He must’ve dozed off, because the next time he dragged his eyes open, Tia Alma was there. She, Mama, and Papa Francis were moving quietly around Albert, speaking in low voices as they tended to the snakebite. He looked a little better; his chest rose and fell in slow, even breaths, and his darkened eyelids lightly rested together in peaceful slumber.

“…Mama?” Rex slurred, alarmed at how breathless he became after uttering one word. He felt much worse than he had when he fell asleep. His pulse thrummed deafeningly in his eardrums; an attempt to swallow left him choking on his swollen tongue. He gagged, gasping for breath, and managed to roll over just in time to avoid vomiting on his pillow.

“Rex?” Mama asked, whirling to face him at the sound of his retching. Tia Alma was at his side in an instant, and in a swift, one-handed motion, she pushed up his right sleeve to reveal the bite. It was horribly swollen, the reddish-purple shadow under his skin displaying how rapidly the venom was advancing. A massive knot had developed under the single fang mark on the inside of his wrist, inches from the base of his thumb. Dark, ugly bruising surrounded the tooth marks and bloomed outward.

“Tia Alma!” Mama gasped at the sight, her hands flying to her mouth.

“It’s not too bad, Johanna.” Tia Alma replied softly, her practiced hands gently probing the painfully swollen flesh. Rex flinched and whimpered.

“I know, I know.” Tia Alma murmured, brushing her thumb soothingly across his forehead. “I know it hurts. We’re gonna take care of that.”

She beckoned Mama and Papa Francis closer, and traced the venom’s path along Rex’s arm with her finger, showing them its advancement. “You can see how the venom has been traveling, down into his fingers and up towards his chest. I need to lance his arm and get as much as possible out of him before it has the chance to spread any further.”

Rex began to struggle feebly against the gentle but firm grip of his folks, crying like a small child. He knew what was about to happen and how much it would hurt, and he was too exhausted to be brave anymore. Papa Francis pinned down Rex’s legs, and Mama wrapped her arms around his chest, keeping him still so Tia Alma could do what she must.

“I’m sorry, baby, I’m so sorry.” Mama whispered tearfully in his ear. “You’ve been so brave; you just gotta hang on for a little longer, okay? It’s almost over, I promise. Hold my hand. Squeeze it tight.”

She dropped a kiss on Rex’s temple and laced her fingers through his, and he held on with all his might, bracing for the pain.


	2. A Mother's Nightmare

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, my lovelies!! 
> 
> Just a few quick things before we get to the chapter. Forgot to mention this in the last chapter so I wanted to say it here - if you or a person you are with is bitten by a snake, do NOT incise and/or try to suck the venom from the bite. In the era this story is set in, before the development of anti-venom, it was your best shot at surviving (and it beats the hell outta the other methods used at the time) but it is no longer the recommended course of action, as it can do a lot more harm than good. I wrote it in this fashion because one, it is historically accurate, and two, that method did save lives back then. Rex's actions still did save Albert's life; it's just an outdated method now that we have anti-venom.
> 
> Aaaaaaaanyway I've kept you guys waiting long enough! Here's da chapter!

Johanna Alexander’s hands were still violently shaking, even hours later. As freezing-cold water from the rusty old well pump spluttered down into her upturned palms, she flinched, not from the shock of the sudden temperature change but from the abrupt movement. The worst part was, the movement was far from unexpected; Tia Alma had struggled with the pump handle for quite some time before the water finally gushed out.

Injuries were part of life for a homesteader in California. People got kicked by horses and bitten by snakes all the time; Johanna had seen more than her share of festering wounds before she hit puberty.

Why was this so different? Why, when it was the blood of her offspring that soiled her hands, did she suddenly feel this nauseating urge to strip down to her skeleton if that was what it took to rid herself of it?

Johanna was not a shrinking violet by any means. She was descended from hearty Dutch and Norwegian immigrants, hunters and seafarers, who carved a piece out of this harsh land and declared it to be theirs. Growing up, there was no colt or steer that she couldn’t ride; no matter how they resisted, she’d cling onto them like a cougar on a deer’s back. Plenty of boys her age had showed an interest in courting her, but most of them were after a girl who would obey her husband. Thanks to that, Johanna remained uninterested in marriage for quite a few years.

Then, at sixteen, she met Warren Marksley. Six-foot-three, dark hair, a voice so deep and soft that even the memory of it raised goosebumps along her spine. He was sweet and a little shy, the son of poor ranchers, but more polite and charming than any robber baron’s son. He came, quite literally, galloping into her life – when she first laid eyes on him, the then-seventeen-year-old Warren was astride a lively young roan, rounding up a dozen cows that had escaped from her family’s barn.

She could still picture, clear as day, the way he’d looked down at her and flashed that swoon-worthy smile, how he’d swept his hat off a tangle of black hair and given her a little half-bow while still astride his horse, the reckless fiery spirit of youth dancing deep within pale green eyes, and the husky purr of his voice as he greeted her with a _“Mornin’, Miss.”_

He was a ranch hand from further north, it turned out, recently hired out by their aging neighbor to look after his vast herd of prized Longhorns. With those green eyes sparkling from beneath the brim of his Stetson, the dashing young Warren Marksley had asked Johanna for her name; when she told him, he repeated it with a bit of a drawl, as if savoring each syllable before it slipped free of his tongue and floated away.

Then, he smiled again, flashing an exquisite set of dimples, and tipped his hat once more. _“’Til we meet again, then, Miss Johanna.”_ he’d said. That was all it took – from that day forward, she was hopelessly in love with Warren Marksley. They courted for just under a year, a whirlwind romance that culminated in 1863 with a wedding proposal. They were married a month later, when she was seventeen and he was eighteen. For about half a year after that, the young couple was deliriously happy.

In the bitter winter that bridged 1863 to 1864, one of the darkest periods of the Civil War, Warren’s powerful sense of justice would be silenced no longer. He had to do something, he told Johanna. He had to fight. Johanna had begged him not to. They were in California, far away from the conflict and mostly safe from the draft. It wasn’t that she didn’t care about why he wanted to fight; on the contrary, she was as fiery about the abolitionist cause as he was. It was that she was terrified of losing him. The Union had plenty of soldiers, she argued; why did _he_ need to go?

In reality, the Union Army was struggling. In 1863 and 1864, morale was so low that they were suffering from over two hundred desertions every single day. They were in dire need of more soldiers. Warren knew that. Johanna knew it, too, but she was afraid. Hundreds of thousands of men were being killed in battle, dying of illness, languishing in Confederate P.O.W. camps (if they didn’t simply execute them), or going missing; those who made it home were often horribly scarred, inside and out.

But Warren’s mind was made up. He enlisted with the Army of the Gulf under Major General Nathaniel P. Banks, and in March of 1864, he was deployed to Louisiana to serve in the Red River Campaign. Mere days after her husband boarded the train that would carry him two thousand miles away from home, Johanna learned that she was carrying his baby.

That day on the train platform, Warren had pressed his forehead to hers and promised her that he would be home before either of them knew it. He kissed her, long and deep, and she watched as he boarded the train, so tall and handsome in his uniform. Though it had been nearly fifteen years since that day, she remembered every detail – it was the last time she would ever lay eyes on her Warren. He took four bullets at the Battle of Mansfield and bled to death in the shallows of a Red River tributary.

Johanna was large with child the day she received a letter from Warren’s closest Army friend, Elias Rhodes, who was with him when he passed on. Its purpose was to inform her that her nightmares had become reality – that her husband had been killed in action, just as she feared he would. Elias expressed his deepest sympathies and said that she and the baby were all Warren ever spoke of; that his final thoughts had been of her. Above all, he wanted to assure her that Warren was not alone or afraid.

 _‘He did not seem to be suffering anymore at that point,’_ the letter stated; ‘ _In fact, his visage bore a serene expression. He whispered the name of his beloved wife, gently closed his eyes, and slipped the bonds of this Earth.’_

The child inside her was the only thing that prevented Johanna from simply giving up. On days when she could only lie in bed, eyes on fire from a million tears, the stirrings within her body reminded her that this little creature needed her to live – and he was very close to being born at that point. In the days and weeks after she learned of Warren’s death, Johanna hadn’t really been aware of the passing of time, but she knew that her time had come roughly two months after the letter’s arrival.

In perhaps her greatest display of strength, Johanna endured her labor entirely unassisted. Rex was born into her hands just before daybreak, on October 5, 1864; the only person that touched him for the first month of his life was his mother. He was perfect – a large and hearty newborn, with a full head of dark hair and blue-green eyes that sparkled with life. He usually only cried if he was hungry, tired, or needed to be changed; as long as his mother was nearby, he spent most of his time smiling. 

Captain Francis Alexander came into her life when Rex was a year old. He was tall and thin and auburn-haired, a dashing young officer in the English Navy, highly educated, refined but not pretentious. He loved Johanna’s fiery spirit, never once attempting to control her. They were a somewhat unlikely pairing: the well-to-do eldest son from a long line of English naval officers and an impoverished young mother, widowed by the Civil War while pregnant – and a first-generation American, no less.

Francis didn’t care what was thought or said about them. He loved her, and he loved Rex as if he were his own son. They were married in 1867, with Johanna wearing her previous wedding rings on her other hand. Francis knew that she would always be in love with Warren; even now, the smell of his skin, the taste of his mouth, and the way his body moved were vividly etched into her memory and her heart. But where some suitors might have been jealous or impatient, Francis was understanding of her grief, and didn’t pressure her to “let go” of Warren or “move on.”

One example of this patience and understanding was Rex’s surname. Since she kept the name of Marksley after Warren’s death, Rex was born under that legal name as well. Francis had told her numerous times that he considered Rex to be his son, but he also understood that he was not; Rex was her strongest link to Warren, and it mattered a great deal to her that he keep his biological father’s name, at least on his birth certificate.

Most people assumed Rex’s surname to be Alexander; those that didn’t know the entire story often assumed that both boys were Francis’ sons. Johanna didn’t mind. As long as Rex’s name was ‘Marksley’ on paper, she had some sort of tangible proof that Warren had existed and that they would have raised a child together – as foolish as it might sound, she needed that validation, for her brief marriage to her first great love sometimes felt as if it had been nothing more than a beautiful dream.

Albert was born on May 11, 1868. His infanthood and Rex’s were like night and day. First, he was smaller than Rex at birth, with lighter hair and darker eyes. Second, he was fussier than Rex, often crying simply because he wanted to be held. Third – and possibly the trait that had been the least affected by time – he tended to ease into new situations rather than crashing into them head-on. One prime example was how each boy approached learning to walk. Albert was slow and cautious, while Rex, ever the headstrong one, was so eager to explore his surroundings that he faceplanted once for every three steps.

Rex’s scrappy nature had saved his brother’s life today, but his stubborn independence had nearly cost him his own. Even now, Tia Alma couldn’t promise her that either of her sons would recover fully, particularly Rex. Because of how long the venom was in his system before it was drained – and because of the exertion of rescuing Albert – it had been given ample opportunity to spread and eat away at muscle and nerve tissue.

Tia Alma had warned Johanna to manage her expectations. Albert would have some difficulty walking for a time. He would need to use a crutch while he regained the strength in his leg. He might yet lose a few toes.

The loss of Rex’s left hand was still a possibility; if not the entire hand, his thumb and index finger were at great risk. Knowing how much Rex loved to tinker around with his little gadgets, the thought of her son losing any of those gifted fingers was more than Johanna could bear.

In the span of an afternoon, her two boys had gone from hale and hardy to lying silent and motionless in their beds; if the next few days did not go as Tia Alma hoped, she might soon be holding them down while pieces of them were cruelly hacked away. This was a _nightmare._

“Johanna…the blood is gone now, m’dear.” Tia Alma cut gently into the whirling despair of her thoughts, the pump handle screeching in protest as she patiently hefted it up and down for the younger woman.

“Hm? Oh – I’m so sorry, Alma, I keep wanderin’ off in my own head.” Johanna muttered, hastily wiping off her dripping hands on her skirt.

“No worries, m’dear.” Tia Alma reassured her, dusting her hands together to rid them of any rust flakes. “Your mind is elsewhere.”

Johanna smiled thinly at the healer and grabbed the pump to give her a turn at washing the blood off her hands, who extended her long fingers beneath the spurting flow and gracefully lifted cupped hands to her face to refresh herself with it, careful not to get any water on her locs.

Tia Alma was a bit of an enigma. No one really knew where she had come from or anything about her family. She spoke with a thick accent and often wore jewelry made of colorful glass beads and small bones. Aside from her medicinal talents, some folks believed that Tia Alma was a clairvoyant – she possessed an uncanny sense of what the future held, and she always seemed to know what was going on in a person’s head – while others believed her to be a witch, or even a succubus.

Johanna had her own theories about Tia Alma’s history; her beautiful dark skin bore countless scars, mainly across her back and upper arms, in a pattern she recognized as whip scarring. When she was a little girl, her father had once bought a mule off their raging drunk of a neighbor, who beat the poor thing every single day. She remembered tracing the scar tissue that crisscrossed the mule’s swayed back, where the whip had cut him so deeply that his hair never grew back in those places.

When she was only seven, Johanna had already known that treating a living being like that was unforgiveable; she couldn’t wrap her mind around the fact that some folks spent their entire lives believing that treating a _human being_ in that fashion was acceptable. Yet that belief was so strong in so many people, it had nearly ripped the U.S. in half, and had taken Warren away from her – from their beautiful son.

Johanna’s damp palms slipped on the handle, her vision blurring over with hot tears. Tia Alma raised her head, a small crease of worry appearing between her eyebrows. Johanna tried to swallow the thick, hard lump that was pressing against her windpipe, to tell the healer that she was fine, but she couldn’t get the words out; her insides were twisting themselves into knots that would make Francis proud.

The crease between her brows deepening, Tia Alma straightened and began to approach the overwhelmed young mother, just as the latter involuntarily folded in half and began to vomit. Gentle hands alighted on the younger woman’s ribcage, steadying her until the heaving passed.

Johanna’s cheeks were wet with tears, her damp eyelashes clinging together and her legs quivering beneath her. She raked a trembling hand through her wheat-blond hair, still in the updo she had arranged it in yesterday morning – when her sons were still whole and well.

Slow, rolling, heaving sobs racked her frame, each one hitting like a physical blow. Her legs sagged beneath her, a deathly cry slowly building deep inside her chest as her maternal heart split in two.

“Let it out, _Maman,_ let it out.” Tia Alma murmured, the grip of her surprisingly powerful arms around Johanna’s midsection the only thing that was keeping the devastated woman from crumpling to her knees.

An unearthly wail emitted from Johanna’s half-parted jaws, her soul screaming out with the primal agony of a mother bearing witness to the suffering of her children and powerless to take it away. Albert and Rex were the two halves of her heart; if they went, then so would she.

When Johanna had cried till she felt hollow, Tia Alma gently lowered her to her knees and smoothed her hair away from her face, as if she were calming a distressed child – and oddly enough, it was exactly what she, a mother of two, needed. She whimpered and hiccupped and sniffled, fighting to even out her shuddering breaths, as Tia Alma gently cooled the flushed skin of her face with dribbles of water from the pump.

“I f-failed ‘em.” Johanna managed to say, when she had regained enough breath to speak. “I sh-shoulda k-k-kept a better eye on ‘em.”

“Listen to the words I speak, Miss Johanna.” Tia Alma replied, a sudden firmness in her tone. “A mother cannot expect to shield her children from every danger that comes their way. The world does not allow that. They must be allowed to explore and make mistakes, even when it means they might get hurt. That is how a child becomes grown.”

Johanna closed her burning eyes and buried her fingers in her hair, dragging herself back to earth. Her boys needed her, needed to hear confidence in her voice when she told them everything would be alright. Right now, they needed a mother who could give them her courage when their own began to falter. They needed her to be strong.

Swiping her sleeve across her eyes, Johanna rose, a tiny flame burning dully in the recesses of her chest. Something was stirring within her, plunging its hands deep into her soul to grasp at an instinct so intense that it almost physically ached each time it roared to life – the primal, ancient urge of a mother to defend her young, no matter the cost.

Tia Alma saw the shift in Johanna as soon as it hit, and a smile played about the corners of her lips. “You found the fire.” she murmured.

Johanna sniffled again and took a shaky breath, letting her fierce love she felt for her children give her strength. “My boys need me.” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “An’ I ain’t fixin’ to let ‘em down.” 

Tia Alma slowly nodded, one half of her mouth curving up even further. “Shall we?” she inquired, placing a hand on the small of Johanna’s back to steady her. Steeling her resolve, Johanna nodded, and the two women started up the dirt path that led back to the Alexander homestead. 


End file.
